


she looks like moonlight

by maureenbrown



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Dreams, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Femslash, Romance, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maureenbrown/pseuds/maureenbrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A golden satin ball gown clings tight against Emma’s waist, but flouncy down below. Her feet are protected, encased in a pair of silver slippers with a slight heel. </p><p>She meets her eyes in the mirror, not a hair out of place. It’s done up in an elegant high bun, and there’s a couple curled strands hung strategically to frame her face, like a photograph or a work of art. </p><p>This is a dream; she reminds herself absentmindedly. She couldn’t look this regal if she tried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	she looks like moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is @sapphicmaia !

Exhausted, Emma flops down onto her bed. Her blonde hair fans out across the pillow sheets, and she curls up in a fetal and almost childlike position, her knees tucked up against her chest. Her breath is hot against the pillow, and it quickly warms up, so she switches her position so that she can lay comfortably on her back.

With a loud sigh of annoyance, she plucks the pillow out from underneath her head and smashes it over her face. Too many nights has she gone sleepless, thinking of quick flashes of knives being thrown, and asphalt underneath her feet as she runs. Nightmares are relentless, and for Emma, it’s nothing to get used to.

Eventually, her breathing slows as she forces herself to calm down. Her fingertips’ grip loosens on the pillow case, and she falls asleep slowly.

...

A golden satin ball gown clings tight against Emma’s waist, but flouncy down below. Her feet are protected, encased in a pair of silver slippers with a slight heel.

She meets her eyes in the mirror, not a hair out of place. It’s done up in an elegant high bun, and there’s a couple curled strands hung strategically to frame her face, like a photograph or a work of art.

This is a dream; she reminds herself absentmindedly. She couldn’t look this regal if she tried.

Emma stands outside of an enormous doorway big enough to fit three cars if it tried, the entryway swinging open as if on cue, realizing she’s hovering at the door.

The inside of the mansion is lavish, filled to the brim with posh looking people. They all wear dresses, none yet as extravagant as hers, though the tiaras and jewelry they wear does come close.

Some gasp overly dramatically, other’s stepping on each other’s toes to make way for Emma as she walks forward numbly, silver glove-covered fingers holding up her dress so she doesn’t trip. A couple peer around heads to gain an extra look at her, but she walks forward ceremoniously.

A girl stands up from the throne she was sitting on, stiller and more graceful than any there. She looks Hispanic, her dark brown hair tied up so it cascades down over her shoulders. Her features are graced with a smile once Emma steps close enough, pearl teeth contrasted against glossy pink lips. Her evening dress is lavish, with golden tassels and fairy tale-esque sleeves that stay snug around her shoulders.

“Gold.” She says softly, her voice gentle and nurturing. Her eyes twinkle as if they’ve shared an inside joke, and she holds out her own hand to meet Emma’s. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Glad I wore it, then.” Emma responds, thankful that her voice doesn’t waver.

The girl’s laugh sounds like a tinkling of a bell, and she interlaces their fingers delicately. “Dance with me?” She offers, and Emma finds herself nodding immediately. 

Emma takes a couple of steps down the podium, guiding her curtly. The music swells and the symphony plays a slow but lively song, and the girl reaches out to take her free hand. She guides it down to her waist, placing it snugly over the new fabric, and Emma places her other one on her hand while she holds her shoulder.

Before Emma can even begin to move, the other twirls miraculously, the edges of their skirts hitting each other as she whisks her along, their pattern swooping and momentous. They twirl so many times Emma starts to feel dizzy, though she slows down expertly every time they both get a little disoriented.

She laughs again, tipping her head back slightly and giddily, extending a hand towards the people surrounding her as she breaks away. They obey with a jolt immediately, each finding their partner before beginning to waltz as well, and it occurs to Emma that this girl might be their leader.

“Are you having fun?” She asks, and Emma nods immediately, attempting to seem as gracious as she can.

“The most.” She tells her, sounding mock solemn to get her to giggle once more.

When the princess—or is it queen?—cuts through the dance floor with Emma in tow, some turn their heads but part anyways to give them space. She sheds her shoes as soon as the palace doors open, her uncomfortably tall heels shedding some height while she waits for Emma to do the same. Without further ado, she starts tearing off into the freshly mown glass, slick with some dew but not enough to keep Emma and her moving at a fast pace.

Gusts of wind push some of Emma’s hair free from its updo, and she shakes her head dramatically like a main or a dog brushing hair from its fur. They stay tethered between linked fingers, otherwise whooping freely and gallantly as they please.

The girl unexpectedly tugs Emma to a stop, causing her to smack roughly into her back. She doesn’t seem bothered and doesn’t even falter, instead turning to wrap an arm around Emma’s lower back, her gaze directed up at the moonlight that basks over them.

“It’s full.” She comments breathlessly, bits and pieces of mirth still spouting from her mouth.

“Mhmm.” Emma agrees, nodding once, and glancing over at the ruler. Her hair is still neat, her cheeks a bit flushed from their escapade.

“It reminds me of your eyes.” She murmurs thoughtfully. “They’re the exact same shade.”

Emma feels her cheeks burn, most likely for a complete different reason than the other girls are. “I suppose you’re right.”

She reaches out blindly to push the wave of a curl away from her face, careful not to brush her eye accidentally. Emma drops her hand back down to her side, unable to stop the frantic pounding of her heart in her ears.

It’s a dream; her conscious thinks, just before the stranger leans in, their lips inches apart.

Through the thin sheer light of the moon and half-lidded eyes, Emma jolts herself back before they kiss.

...

Emma writhes on the bed, her blankets a bundle down at her feet. She remembers her reverie vividly, from the way she looked and how familiar her actions seemed, her pulse still thrumming.

“Cristina.” Emma croaks, her head falling back against the headboard with an unceremonious smack. “I dreamt Cristina.”

...

Across the table at breakfast that morning when she finally rises, Emma avoids Cristina’s gaze. The other girl looks for her, her gaze questioning, but Emma stays unrelenting.

Cristina and Cinderella are two different concepts, after all.


End file.
